


Lonely Together

by Gallahad



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game), Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon Bearer of the Curse (Throne of Want Ending), Post-Canon Hunter (Honoring Wishes Ending), Size Difference, Slow Burn, there will be fluffy smut and violence/body horror in the future chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-14 00:40:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16029419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gallahad/pseuds/Gallahad
Summary: The Good Hunter did everything right, or so he thought. But instead of putting an end to the Hunt, all he managed to do was to become an even deeper part of it. By killing Gehrman and submitting to Moon Presence, he accepted his fate as her new surrogate child and watcher of the Hunter's Dream.Now, the Doll is his only company, as he guides all the hunters that came after him.Until one day the dream offers him a very unusual hunter. One that is twice his size and looks more like an ancient knight than a hunter. One with whom he feels a strange kinship.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I've got a soft spot for this niche ship for a long time and I hope this work will do them justice.
> 
> Shoutout to the only others 3 or 4 people who created content about these two. Your wonderful arts and fics are what motivated me to write this. You know who you are.
> 
> Also this is not beta, good luck with that.

 

_Useless. All of this is useless._

A step. Then two.

_What am I fighting for?_

Left foot. Then the right. Then left again. He cannot stop now, even if his body feels as heavy as lead.

_Was it worth it?_

A world stuck in an endless cycle of light and dark. Of curses and emptiness.

It's a funny thing, fate. A bitter thing. It beckons you for so long that you don't even realize it's been there with you the whole time. That you never were truly free of making your own choices, walking your own path.

 _“One day, you will stand before its decrepit gate. Without really knowing why...”_ the fire keepers had said.

It was like this from the very beginning.

Yes. Since the beginning. He has always marched forward, without knowing why. Without looking back. Without really thinking about it. Was it a trick from destiny, him being here? Or just pure misfortune?

Nashandra was no more, but he could still feel her curse in his veins, lingering like maggots. Fatigue overtakes him. He would like to rest.

A step, and another.

The Throne of Want looks like a kiln. Under his helmet, his lips, caked with blood, form the ghost of a dry smile. He abhors the irony behind the comparison.

It's smaller than what he expected.

Link the Fire, sweet Shanalotte has told him. But was it really worth it? Link the fire, and then? Another flickering flame, a light so tiny it was bound to disappear again before any kingdom would come. No Age of Gods, or Men, or Dragons, could ever flourish with such a tiny respite from the Dark. No use Linking the Fire. It would always be put out in the end.

...No use walking away either. So many Undeads, like him. There would be someone to come in his stead, someone who would willingly do it.

Now that he finally had a choice, the Bearer of the Curse understands that it didn't matter.

He was the Monarch, fit to sit on the Throne. He could have everything.

He was also a modest knight, from a faraway land he has long forgotten. On a lone path toward his own demise, with his sword as his only ally.

In a world without an end and too many beginnings.

He was sick of it all.

He drags his massive body more than walking toward the Throne. Despite his rancor, he feels like it sings his name in a low murmur, luring him. So many times, so many souls taken, just so he could be here.

The knight inhales sharply — _damn, his chest hurts_ — before letting his fingers lightly trace along the cold stone.

_Alright. Let's see what you will do, then._

Be it an Age of Dark denied of hope, or an Age of Fire doomed to repeat itself, he would accept all. Wasn't it his only task, after all?

And thus, the knight sits, slowly, on a throne of lies.

His eyes close. Over his own shallow breathing, he has the illusion of hearing the soothing voice of Shanalotte, eerily even and kind, before everything fade to nothingness.

 

—

 

The Hunter's Dream is not supposed to be anything more than a moment of respite in a Hunter's life. It is a place without a location, and a world without real starting point or end.

It is almost like a living thing. With the potential of changing forms to adapt the wants of its architect and those who live in it. And yet, it feels still and stuck in time.

For the temporary refugees of this tiny world, those who comes and goes, it's a relief. A pause in a long, long night of deaths and battles. At first, they all seem uncertain, disoriented. Some try to befriend the strange inhabitants of this dream. Some become mad with disillusions or dread and tries to kill everything in sight — those always fail, for this place would never let its prisoners die. And some others finally, shake their head in terror, never wanting to leave, to go back. But they all have to, in the end. Because the Hunt is the only thing a hunter can do.

He was a hunter too, once.

He does not even remember when. Time is not something that exist, here. But he was. Maybe he still is, deep inside, and maybe that is why the Doll insist on addressing him as such even now, after spending what should be an eternity trapped here by his side. The nostalgic familiarity that comes with the fond name always makes his heart aches. He thinks it may be her way of caring for him, but he is not sure.

Oh, how Gehrman must laugh at him, from wherever his freed soul may reside now.

How he must have suffered too, before the Hunter took his place. Wanting to leave this peaceful prison, yet refusing to let someone else to endure the same torment in his stead. He knew, because now, he is the same. Every time a new hunter would be brought to the Dream, he would envy their freedom, yet would never say anything unnecessary and simply assist them, with few words and silent nods. Like the Doll, he was nothing more than a background figure. A convenient, mandatory support for all the beast slayers. Like Gehrman was before him. Like Moon Presence wanted him to be.

When he gazes at the full moon, so large and brighter than the sun, he knows that she is watching him. For the thousandth time, he addresses a silent plea to her. As usual, for a while now, there is no answer. Not when it would have mattered anyway.

Behind him, he can sense more than hear the light flutters of Doll's clothes approaching. Yet he doesn't feel her presence, maybe because she is simply a puppet without a soul — when he first met her, she was so life-like and reassuring that he had refused to think she wasn't human. But now, living with her for so long, it was simply a fact. It does not alter his affection toward her in any way. But it makes his loneliness take deeper roots in his heart.

Alone in a narrow world.

She does not interrupt him, she never would. She simply waits there, watching his back with kind eyes, until he would stop looking at the celestial body and turn toward her. And so, with a sigh, he does.

"A new Hunt has begun," her voice is as soft as everything else about her.

Of course. He has felt it too. Another Hunt. Another one. She says nothing else, because they both know the implications it has, and the roles they have to play from now on. They have done it so many times already. Welcoming the new hunter. Supporting them from beginning to end, against all odds. And then, when the ethereal being living in the moon would deem their job done, it would be his turn. Freeing the poor soul from a circle of never-ending nights, sending them back to a reality where death was final and the world was right.

Finally, the ex-hunter allows himself a deeper sigh — it has become a habit he developed since his arrival to Yharnam, so long ago, when he realized speaking wasn't something that was really necessary to hunt monsters — and began walking toward the workshop. It is only when he climbs the first steps that he realizes Doll has not moved from her place.

She is gazing at the horizon, her head slightly tilted in a puzzled posture, but her porcelain face is as neutral as ever.

Her mind seems somewhere else. It is a first, he thinks. Maybe. He is not sure.

When she feels his gaze on her, she turns gracefully to face him.

"Ah. Do pardon me, Good Hunter. I just had a very peculiar feeling. It was fleeting, however, so I cannot put a name on it."

He watches her with curiosity and a strange sense of foreboding. What he is sure of is that the Doll never uses the word 'feeling' lightly. Her not being able to put a name on what she senses makes him uncomfortable without really knowing why.

 

—

 

They wait for the new hunter for a while.

There is no real entrance or exit in the Dream Refuge. Things simply aren't there, until they are. Sometimes, while you are not looking, objects appear. Or people. Or a little bit of the garden or the workshop's structure change.

It does not really matter why things are this way. It is a dream after all. But everything happening here has a reason to do so. Everything is the will of the Moon and, when she is inclined to hear his requests, his as well. Like that time when he asked for the workshop to have another room tucked in the back that could serve as a bedroom, or when he asked for the tombstone representing him to be removed. (It made him uneasy.)

So he knows the new hunter would simply be there when the time would be right.

And indeed, soon enough, it was.

Usually, new hunters would wake up fairly soon after their first death in the waking world. In Gehrman's time, this first visit was nothing more than a short, dumbfounded one. The workshop was closed, and Doll was just a discarded marionette. The Little Ones were the only one to greet them here.

But since he was here, it has been a little different. He was present to welcome the unfortunate souls. Oh, he never says much, never explains anything, really. But he remembers how lost he was, back then, when he was at their place. Seeing someone, anyone, who at least _looked_ human and didn't try to kill you on the spot, well, it could make a huge difference.

So, when he feels a prickling sensation behind his neck, the sign that something new just appeared in the dream, he gets up from his chair, mentally preparing himself for the confused questions he just can't answer that will come his way — because they all have questions, he learned. After all, all hunters are the same. Not on the surface, of course, but in _substance_.

Yet, as he steps out of the workshop, he can see from afar, in the garden below, that the newcomer looks like they do not belong here.

They seem to stir up, sitting against a tombstone, waking up from a very long slumber. Even from a distance, the ex-hunter can see how massive they are. But their getup is the true oddity. An armor. An actual armor, covered in fur and dark fabrics.

Not something a civilian nor a seasoned hunter would wear.

The feeling of discomfort comes back, and suddenly, breathing seems a little harder.

"Well now, that's an unusual one," he murmurs to himself.


	2. Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I should have called this "Prologue 2".

The first thing the Bearer sees when he opens his eyes is a sea of white flowers. It fills him with a strange, almost foreign sense of peace.

The first thing the Hunter notices as he stays on the doorstep of the workshop, leaning against its frame with crossed arms, is that the Messengers - usually so fond of newcomers to the point of offering much-needed trinkets and weapons - are nowhere to be found this time.

With a frown, he ponders the strange behavior. So far, there is nothing to his liking about the stranger and something in his mind - is it his instinct as a retired hunter, or a fleeting warning from Moon Presence? - is telling him to be cautious. It is with a swift gesture that he puts back in place the mask that usually hides the lower half of his face. His hunter's coat is laying somewhere in the little building, as well as the hat, abandoned and useless now. But the mask... He never showed his face to anyone here besides the Doll. It was an effective way to be in control, and a mean to distance himself from the numerous hunters coming here. Why forge bonds and meaningful friendships with people he was doomed to lose anyway?

Furthermore, he feels just enough on edge right now to be thankful to have a way to conceal himself.

Just as he finishes adjusting it, the knight is up on his legs.

The Bearer first looks at himself. The wounds from his fight against Nashandra were no more. The fact itself does not surprise him in the slightest, his body would always recover of the worst injuries after any of his deaths, as it was his curse. But it was raising another question altogether.

Did he died?

He tries to remember what happened after sitting on the Throne, but apart from an endless darkness and a feeling of tranquility, there was nothing else. He just closed his eyes to an empty, cold cave, and woke up near a beautiful field of flowers.

The flowers. They are swinging lazily, like a slow dance, even without a breeze.

This place is foreign, yet feels so serene and timeless. It reminds him of Majula, and for the briefest of moment, it makes his heart ache with longing. And soon, it is replaced with questions. Where is this place? _What_ is this place? Is it a trick from the Throne of Want? Or maybe another trial?

He had seen enough traps disguised as clever and pretty illusions to be wary. But there is no upcoming danger, from what he can tell. Nothing but a piercing gaze throws his way.

The Hunter is tensing up when the Bearer looks at him in return, hiding behind a ridiculously heavy-looking helmet.

It takes more than he cares to admit to keep in check the uneasiness as the other man walks up to him. He closes the distance in swift strides, like someone used to react quickly. It bears a certain kind of elegance, the Hunter admits. Despite all the out-of-place pieces of metal, there is almost no sound made but the light rustling of clothes. When the knight stops, he is barely halfway on the stairs and yet he is already almost seeing eyes to eyes with the other.

The air is still for a while. Silently, they stare each other.

Only to finally coming to the mutual understanding that they are no menace to one another. Not yet at the very least.

The Hunter sighs ever so slightly. He has the feeling the usual welcoming speech will be unnecessary here.

"You do not look like you belong here." he says instead, with a voice so flat and denied of intonation that the Bearer tilts his head lightly to the side in surprise. He was used to being greeted with a large array of emotions from the people he met alongside his quest. It was either glee or spite, and he found it a great help to gauge if someone is going to help you or actually try to rip you apart.

But the shorter man, with his strange outfit of dark leather and belts, is utterly neutral.

The knight nods in acknowledgment. Something tells him that this peculiar host is the one watching over this place. It is in his placid confidence and aloof posture. In the way he does not carry any weapons, yet has this latent, subconscious aura of threat, should he be rubbed the wrong way.

"It may be the truth you spoke here, as I do not know where _'here'_ is." the Bearer answers with composure, forcing himself to keep a mild tone. "But perhaps you would be so kind as to enlighten me?"

 _Not a new hunter, and wakes up being perfectly calm in a place he doesn't know?_ Even weirder. The Hunter starts to think that maybe it is an elaborate joke from Moon Presence. If only Great Ones were known for their sense of jest.

But since he is nothing more than the keeper of this refuge, he decides to play his part.

"People call this place the Hunter's Dream." With his gloved hand, he gestures casually toward the garden and the rows of tombstones, "it's a place for those who have joined the Hunt, for the ones who slay unsightly beasts all night long and need a place to rest."

It does not really help the bigger man to understand his situation.

He has the feeling this 'hunt' the other is talking about is not like the ones he has in mind. Why would honorable hunters be in need of such a curious place? And where were those hunters to begin with?

 _Unsightly beasts,_ the man had said.

He takes a moment to think about it, while the Hunter watches him with an indiscernible look. He was expecting almost anything when he sat on the throne. Being transported to a foreign land, greeted by a stranger talking of beasts and hunts, never was one of them. In a sense, he has the same impression as when he first came to Drangleic, attracted like a moth to an unknown flame, filled with a feeling of ignorance as he would simply follow cryptic messages from people who immediately branded him as the next sacrifice for the Flame.

He does not know anything, and his host does not seem inclined to say much more than that. So, in an attempt to show his good will, his body takes a more relaxed stand as his hand goes to massage his own neck in an embarrassed gesture.

"Then," he inhales sharply, "it looks like I am lost."

 

 

—

 

 

"So, you are telling me you never heard of Yharnam?"

They are both inside the workshop, contemplating the fire in the chimney. Or at least, the Hunter is, sitting on the side of the table, pensive. The Bearer seems to find the weapons aligned to the wall more to his liking.

"Not that I recall. I come from a place called Drangleic."

The Hunter lets out a soft sound of acknowledgment as he stays lost in thoughts. The name was as unfamiliar to him as Yharnam seemed to be to the other one.

Yharnam was both famous and shrouded in mysteries. No one would actually be simply _lost_ at the door of such a forsaken city. Not to mention, to access the dream, one would be forced through the blood transfusion ritual to become a hunter first. From what he gathered from his guest, the knight never stepped a foot in the streets of Yharnam. He just happened to suddenly _be there_.

The Hunter is more and more lost to the conundrum taking place before him. The Bearer is puzzling and behind his polite and almost friendly demeanor, he is also secretive and careful. His voice is light, but his words measured and deliberate.

When he stares at the fire with a scowl, the Bearer turns toward him. Now that they were inside, the Hunter could see how much _place_ the man was taking. Not only physically, but the actual atmosphere surrounding him. A calm strength and a charisma fit of someone who suffered many hardships without losing their way once.

"The way you behave, must I assume you don't know much about my predicament either?"

That was one way of putting it indeed. All of this is new to the Hunter, and he doubted Gehrman ever had to deal with something similar either. He shakes his head slightly, secretly unsure of himself. But when he speaks, it is with the assurance required for someone who must serve as a guide.

"If you are here, it means you are a hunter. And a hunter must hunt."

Because this realm is not fit for anyone else. Only hunters are trapped here. Only those chosen by the Great One in the moon. And if a hunter does not hunt, they will never see the dawn at the end of the night. It was the rule of this place, since the very beginning. No matter if the knight came from a faraway land - or _time_ , his mind suggests, and it doesn't seem that far-fetched in insight.

"Are you suggesting that I partake in this 'hunt' of yours?" The Bearer is not thrilled at the idea, it seems, which is not surprising. Rarely has the Hunter witnessed someone willingly engage in this sick joke. But then again, the other man is oddly composed about the whole ordeal.

"If you wish to go back to wherever you are coming from, this may be the only way."

Suddenly, the Bearer goes eerily still, his gaze focusing on the ground. When he speaks, it is for himself only, as his voice is so low the sound barely escape the helmet, sliding on the metal. "Of course. It always comes to that in the end, no matter where i am."

 _Fighting. Again. And again._ Was that the great trick of the Throne of Want? To force him through another path of strifes? Because trying to find a cure for the curse of the Undeads across all of Drangleic wasn't enough? Because stopping Nashandra after countless allies lost and enemies slain could not be the end after all?

It takes him a while to realize his host is giving him a sidelong glance. The interrogation in his raised eyebrows is obvious, but he has the tact not to ask anything. Or he simply does not care, which would be even better.

As he composes himself again, the Bearer nods slightly and addresses the first thing in his mind to change the subject.

"And who are you then? One of those hunters as well?"

"...See me as a helper of sort."

The answer is short and curt, but the Hunter does not wish to let the conversation stretch out now that the knight starts asking the wrong questions.

He refuses to give him the opportunity to ask anything more as he gets up and starts walking out. When the Bearer joins him, confused with the abrupt dismissal, the Hunter gesture toward one of the graves nearby. "You should go. This night will be endless for you if you stay here. Go and kill some beasts, and maybe you'll find something that will help you."

 _It's for your own good,_ he ends mentally, mimicking the words he himself was told when he first came here.

The knight lets a breath of air escape his lips. It almost sounds amused. But instead of replying anything, he simply walks out.

The way he accepts everything is still unnerving.

The Messengers seem to be back, and they are beckoning him to come closer. At first, he looks hesitant of what to do, but soon enough, his imposing figure is vanishing slowly in a soft halo of light.

It takes a while for the Hunter to stop staring at the now empty space.

 


End file.
